


Terms of Endearment

by makeit_takeit



Series: All Caps [3]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Character Study, Developing Relationship, Drunk Dialing, M/M, Pet Names, Phone Sex, Rare Pairings, Rare Relationships, Self-Acceptance, Self-Discovery, Self-Doubt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 22:37:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19733080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makeit_takeit/pseuds/makeit_takeit
Summary: He’s pretty sure whatever’s telling him he shouldn’t let his boyfriend call him diminutive nicknames sounds exactly like the voice that tells him he shouldn’t have aboyfriendto begin with – too risky, too irresponsible, and he didn’t work his whole life to get to the NHL just to throw it all away because he saw a dick he liked and then caught feelings or whatever.It’s the same voice that says even if heisdumb enough to try to have a boyfriend in the NHL, said boyfriend definitely shouldn’t be a teammate, much less a possibly-straight teammate, much less TomfuckingWilson, of all fucking people, like how goddamn stupid is he, anyway?Incidentally, that voice has a thick Alabama accent and sounds suspiciously like Nic’s 6th grade Boy Scout Master who once called Nicprincesswhen he balked at baiting his own hook.So, like.Fuckthat voice, basically.





	Terms of Endearment

**Author's Note:**

> A short series of events as pertains to the below:
> 
> I’ve been working on something else totally unrelated to these two bozos. Honest.
> 
> Unrelatedly, I’ve also set a personal goal of trying to publish something once a month, because I don’t let things like reality get in the way of my dreams!
> 
> I realized, the thing I was working on was nowhere close to being finished by the end of June, because I have to turn everything into a Whole Production.
> 
> Simultaneously, Andre Burakovsky was traded, and everyone was like _but why can’t Tom Wilson have nice things?_
> 
> And I thought, hey, I’ll write a quick little something cute about a nice thing Tom still has (it’s Nic. The Thing is Nic.) and that will be my June post and everyone will win!
> 
> Then I had way too many margaritas and was too hungover to finish this last weekend.
> 
> I finished it today, so that’s still something?
> 
> This is for all you beautiful souls who keep indulging me by reading this series. Someone bookmarked it with the tags “soft” and “pornish” and I mean – yes.
> 
> And thanks again to **_ambruises_** , for participating so enthusiastically in my endless speculation about what Tom and Nic might get up to next.

Nic is on the golf course when the news breaks. His phone is in his bag; he doesn’t even see it for himself.

“Hey,” his brother says when they pull up to 12, poking at his phone while Nic’s digging fresh beer out of the cooler on the back of the cart, “it says Burakovsky’s going to the Avs.”

“No shit?”

Nic checks his own phone, just to confirm, like his ESPN alerts are somehow different from the ones Matt gets. Of course, Nic immediately thinks of Tom.

So, apparently, does Matt.

“How’s his buddy Wilson gonna take that news? Or Backstrom, they’re tight, right?”

His brother is family, but his team is another, just as real, kind of family, and Nic doesn’t share hockey-family business outside the team any more than he’d share regular-family business. He’s not about to get into it with Matt, the fact that Burky hasn’t been happy, that he’d actually asked for a trade back before the deadline.

Especially since Matt knows Nic and Andre aren’t particularly that close.

And neither, as far as Matt knows, are Nic and Tom - who is the only reason Nic knows that piece of info about Andre to begin with. It’s not like Burky ever spread it around to the whole team or put it out in the media, he’s not that kind of guy. But he’s like a brother to Tom, and Nic knows Andre had asked Tom’s advice, gotten his opinion on things before he ever talked with management in the first place.

And Tom only shared it with Nic because they’re -. Well. What they are.

Boyfriends, or whatever.

After two weeks with Tom at his lake house and three more weeks back home in Huntsville to think about everything that happened at the lake house, Nic’s still trying to wrap his mind around _boyfriends._

“I dunno,” Nic just shrugs noncommittally. “It sucks, for sure, but people get it. Business is business and all that.”

 _Just heard_ , he texts Tom quickly, while Matt’s setting up his tee shot. _Sucks, sorry man_.

He puts his phone back in his bag, and finishes the round.

+++

There’s a text back from Tom when Nic checks back in the club house, _Not too surprising but yeah, def sucks. Gonna miss that idiot_ , and that’s it.

Nic fires off a teardrop face and a shrugging guy emoji, and sits down to change out of his spikes.

He has lunch with Matt at the Club, then heads home to his parents’ house for a nap. Later in the afternoon he takes Arlo for a run and then a swim. He does some backward sprints in the pool, then some pushups on the pool deck, and figures that counts as a light workout, at least.

His mom makes one of her specialties, a chicken and rice concoction heavy on the cream of mushroom soup and smothered in cheese, for dinner. Nic eats a whole bag of salad and a few spoons full of the casserole and thinks to himself - not for the first time – that he can’t stay here much longer.

The thing is he’s not sure exactly where to go, instead.

After the season he drove to Alabama to see the family, but also to leave Arlo with his parents while he went to LA and then Mexico and then Canada. But now he’s been back for just shy of three weeks and -.

Well.

He can’t stay here all summer. Obviously.

First, it’s tough to work out here, tough to get ice time and tough to find anyone to workout with.

Second, he can’t keep eating his mother’s food. Like, Nic could stand to gain some weight, sure, but fried chicken and sweet tea and mayonnaise-based casserole dishes aren’t exactly the recommended approach.

Third, it’s so fucking _hot_ , it’s unreal. Now that he’s been gone for so long, he can’t actually believe people choose to live here, like, on purpose. In the _summer_ , no less. It’s lunacy.

And last, but definitely not least – there’s really, just, no privacy.

The thing is, Nic hasn’t actually lived in his parents’ house since he was a teenager, but he’s stayed for long stretches every summer and he can’t remember the house ever feeling so _small_ before.

Maybe part of it is just getting older – every year he’s a little farther removed from this place, a little more accustomed to being on his own, to being completely independent and, let’s face it, completely alone. Having his parents, his brothers, their wives and kids coming around all the time is great, but it’s also crowded and loud and kind of exhausting and just – it’s a lot.

He remembers the house always feeling so big, as a kid. Probably because his brothers are so much older, their empty bedrooms across the hall always a reminder that things were once much more crowded. That there was a time when Nic had been relegated to using his parents’ bathroom downstairs, because Matt and Jeff were teenagers with busy schedules and a constant pack of friends over at the house, none of whom wanted to stand in line waiting while their baby brother took all night playing with his toys in the bath tub or whatever.

By the time Nic was eight, Matt was off to college and it seemed so empty suddenly that Nic was afraid, at first, of sleeping upstairs alone in the cavernous silence.

Now the rooms seem impossibly small, stuffed with relics of all of their childhood hobbies and achievements. Nic can hear his parents TV from their room right underneath his, the sounds of their muffled voices coming through the air conditioning vents in a way that he remembers feeling comforted by, as a kid.

It just makes him hyper aware, now, that if he can hear them, they can probably hear him, too.

Sometimes he can still hear them talking when Tom calls at night, and he goes all the way down the hall to Jeff’s room, puts a pillow over the air vent and still feels the need to speak so low it’s practically a whisper.

It’s ridiculous, is what it is, or at least that’s what Nic tells himself.

He came out to his parents in college, for God’s sake – it’s been _years_. He wouldn’t say they’re _comfortable_ with it, exactly, but he wouldn’t say they’re necessarily uncomfortable, either. They’re accepting, understanding. They get that if Nic’s going to date someone, it’s going to be a man. But they haven’t actually been faced with the _reality_ of Nic dating someone, thus far – none of them have, actually - and that’s the crux of the problem, if Nic’s being honest with himself.

Because if they hear him talking to Tom on the phone, there’s just no way they won’t hear the fondness in his voice, the stupid soft tone he gets every time Tom calls, just _because_ _Tom calls_.

If they hear him, they’re going to _know_ , and then they’re going to have questions, and Nic’s just. He’s not ready for that, not when he and Tom haven’t even talked about – well, anything, really, beyond the fact that they’re giving actual dating a try.

So, yeah.

Nic knows he needs get out of here, and going back to DC is really the only place that makes sense. He’s not sure why he’s been dragging his feet about it.

So after dinner, he showers and climbs into bed, and pulls up his calendar on his phone. There’s some family stuff his mom has planned for the 4th, his golf reservations already made with his dad and brothers next Saturday. Other than that, there’s not exactly a lot going on in Nic’s life down here. He blocks off the day for Sunday, July 7th, and types _Back to DC_. Then he adds three exclamation marks, like some forced enthusiasm is really going to make an eleven hour drive seem appealing.

It’s only ten o’clock, but his parents are already in bed, and there’s no TV upstairs anymore. So he plugs in his phone, picks up his tablet and reads himself to sleep.

+++

He wakes up with the edge of the tablet digging into his jaw, and his phone ringing on the night stand next to his head. He barely even processes that it’s a FaceTime call from Tom, before he’s swiping it open, staring through one bleary eye at the too-bright screen.

“Oh, shit,” Tom says with wide eyes, “you were sleeping.”

“Of course I was sleeping,” Nic groans. “It’s the middle of the night.”

Tom just snorts.

“Babe,” his grin goes sly, teasing, “’s not even midnight. ’m pretty sure you should still be awake, it’s summer!”

Nic looks at the time on his own phone, trying to process what’s going on here. Sure enough, it’s only 11:38. His eyes adjust a little more to the brightness of the screen, at least enough for him to open them both.

Tom’s face is a little flushed, eyes a little glassy. He’s holding the phone _very_ close to his face.

Also, they just talked last night, which usually means at least a day or two before one of them makes another phone call. Something is definitely up.

“What’s up?” Nic squints suspiciously at the phone.

“I’m drunk,” Tom announces, loud and matter-of-fact. There’s a little sigh at the end, a little note of sadness in his voice, and there it is.

“Is this about Andre?” Nic can’t help the way his voice goes all soft. Like, it’s seriously kind of embarrassing how out of his control it is.

“Uuuuuuuuunnnnnngggggg,” Tom groans dramatically. “Maybe? I dunno babe, I just felt kinda – whatever - and I accidentally got drunk. But then I was pretty drunk so I got more drunk, except on purpose. And now I think I’m kinda sad about Burky, but also kinda sad about you.”

Nic feels a curl of anxiety invade his chest, snaking its way around his heart.

“About me?” Nic keeps his voice as even as he can. “Why would you be sad about me?”

Tom sighs again, a loud rush of breath from Nic’s speakers, then there’s rustling around and Tom’s face disappears, only to appear again with his headboard behind him, propped up on some pillows.

Nic can tell by the direction of the light that he’s got the bedside lamp on, can tell by the odd glimpse of bare neck or shoulder that he’s not wearing a shirt.

He tries to remember who’s there with Tom this week, who he would have been getting drunk with tonight. There’s been a revolving door of friends and family since Nic left the lake house a few weeks ago, an endless stream of pics of fish Tom’s catching and steaks he’s gilling, videos of wakeboarding tricks he’s learning and workouts he’s trying.

And it’s not that Nic doesn’t appreciate Tom checking in, keeping Nic updated on his life – not that he doesn’t _particularly_ appreciate videos of Tom scantily clad and engaged in various impressively strenuous feats of athleticism. But he’s also possibly a little jealous that Tom and his friends are having so much fun while Nic’s 875 miles away.

Tom and his very hot, ridiculously good-looking friends. Many of whom are female, but also many of whom are _male_ , and now Nic’s not even sure any more which ones he should be most worried about, so he low key worries about both.

Which is – it’s stupid, and Nic _knows_ it’s stupid. Or at least, he’s _almost_ positive it’s stupid, and he’s not going to - .

“I’m sad _without_ you, up here. I miss you a lot,” Tom says, plain and simple as that, and oh. God. Nic feels his heart drop into his stomach.

“Uh,” Nic says, heart pounding. “Yeah. I mean. Yeah, miss you too, bud.”

He feels almost panicky, which is so dumb, but he just.

It seems wrong, somehow, to let Tom say things like that when he’s drunk, and when Nic knows he’d _never_ , normally - .

But then again.

They’ve had some other firsts when Tom was drunk, and Nic wouldn’t take those back for any amount of money, so.

Tom makes a disbelieving, huffing sound, and his grin turns mocking.

“Okay, _bud_ ,” he rolls his eyes, makes a wide-eyed, sarcastic face. “Miss you too, _pal_. Like especially I miss you suckin’ my dick, _bro_. And like, kissing you and stuff. On your mouth. Like, just as friends though. Because, no homo.”

The phone wobbles while he talks, and Nic can see his free hand waving dramatically in the air. Which, listen. Point taken, or whatever.

“Yeah, okay, fine,” Nic shrugs by way of apology. “I do miss you, though, uh. Tom.”

 _God_ , he’s hopeless.

He’s expecting Tom’s annoyed face, but instead Tom just cackles, like he agrees about Nic’s hopelessness, but he’s content to accept it.

“In a _not_ no homo way,” Tom grins, and it’s Nic’s turn to snort.

“Yes, right. In a _not_ no homo way.”

“In a kissing me on the mouth way,” Tom insists, slurring a little. Nic laughs again.

“In a kissing you on the mouth way, totally.”

“In a sucking my dick way, also. For sure that one,” he says, softer, his eyes partially hidden behind suddenly heavy lids, fluttering lashes. Nic can see his pupils, blown wide and black in the middle of those pale pools of blue.

Nic feels himself blushing, which is just. _So_ dumb, considering, and – all of this is just so _dumb_ , honestly, but.

“Obviously,” he concedes, and he can’t keep his mouth from turning up a little, as much as he tries not to smile. “For sure that one.”

“Look at you,” Tom sighs wistfully, and Nic feels his blush kick up another few notches. “You’re so cute, and. Like, so pretty and just. Sweet, and it’s like. Why’d you even leave?”

Oh, Jesus, Nic’s face is _burning_ now, because what the fuck, seriously. He tries valiantly to laugh this off.

“Okay, drunky,” he rolls his eyes, but indulgently. “I think maybe you should go sleep it off, huh?”

“No,” Tom says, a little belligerent. “No, no, you’re super cute, have you looked at your face? Lately? Because it’s _cute_. And your whole.” He waves his hand dramatically again. “Thing is just, I miss it. Not even like sex especially, or anything, just like, everything equally and like, your dick the same as the rest which is how you know ‘m serious. Right?”

“Tommy,” Nic starts, a warning tone in his voice. He feels suddenly, _urgently_ compelled to stop this before Tom says something that he’ll just forget he said, and Nic will have to pretend to forget it, too.

“Mmhmm,” Tom hums, and his eyes flutter closed. “Like when you call me that.”

“I think,” Nic starts again, but Tom just goes on, eyes closed, face totally relaxed.

“I could call you _Nicky_ , how ‘bout that?” He huffs a little laugh under his breath, eyes still closed. “But I hardly even call you _Nic_ do I? ‘s stupid, right? ’s your _name_ , but I don’t wanna make you think - . _Humph_.”

He snorts again, loudly, and shrugs against the head board. He still hasn’t opened his eyes.

Nic bites back the screaming urge to blurt _don’t wanna make me think what_? That wouldn’t be fair, and anyway, he’s pretty sure whatever Tom says in this state Nic will never hear from him sober, so. Best not to get used to it.

“Well,” Nic tries one more time, non-committal, “I think maybe you should just get some sleep. We can talk tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah but,” Tom sighs, dejected, head lolling to the side, neck muscles standing out in sharp relief. Nic names them in his head: the thick column of the sternocleidomastoid, the sharp slope of the deltoid, to keep his mind off how much he’d like to put his mouth on them.

And also how much he’d like to put his mouth on Tom’s mouth, just to shut him up and keep him from saying anything else that Nic shouldn’t be hearing.

“We won’t talk tomorrow ‘cause we jus’ talked today and we don’t talk two days in a row, do we? _Noooo_. Another stupid bullshit thing that’s just. Stupid fuckin’ bullshit, babe. Ridiculous.”

Nic won’t pretend he doesn’t know what Tom’s saying, or that Tom, regardless of his level of inebriation, doesn’t have a point. It’s like some unwritten rule that came out of nowhere but they both abide by, like. Like if they talk every day it’ll be – too much. Mean something _more_ than it means when they only talk every few days.

Which, whatever, Nic’s no expert – maybe it _would_ mean something more, but, like, what difference would that really make at this point? Haven’t they been doing this long enough by now, it’s not really gonna be some surprise to find out they like each other?

Like, _a lot_?

Stupid fuckin’ bullshit seems like a perfect way to describe it, honestly.

“It’s – yeah. Pretty ridiculous,” Nic agrees, “but I promise, okay? I’ll call in the morning and check on you, make sure you’re not dead of a hangover. Yeah?”

“You should be here,” Tom sighs again, like Nic hadn’t even spoken. “You should come back here, okay?”

They’d talked, vaguely, about the possibility of Nic visiting again later in the summer, so.

“I’m going to, remember? We said maybe end of August, before training camp? Right?”

“’s so _long_ ,” Tom’s jaw sets stubbornly, and he groans. “So long ‘til then and you should come now, okay? Nic? Nicky?”

Then he _humph_ s quietly at himself again.

Nic can’t help grinning, even though talking to drunk Tom is kind of like walking through an emotional minefield. He shakes his head, alone in the dark.

“I’ll make you a deal, okay? If you remember this tomorrow, and you still wanna talk about it, we’ll talk about it then. How’s that?”

“You think I won’t, but I will,” Tom insists. “Just come to Toronto and stay with me, I want you to stay with me. We can go to the lake on the weekends and train in the city during the week, and I’ll put some meat on your bones.”

He cackles loudly at that, amused with himself.

“That sounds like it’s a – thing. What’s the thing? Like it’s dirty. _Meat on your bones_.” He huffs out another throaty laugh.

“But really though, _really_. You’re too skinny, okay? If you just come stay with me then you eat what I eat and train how I train then you’ll get stronger. And then nobody’ll mess with you on the ice which’s good because if they do I’ll have to fight. You know I’ll have to fight, babe. An’ you don’ like that. Right? Right baby? Dowder. Sweetheart.”

His eyes flutter open, finally, and Nic tries to close his mouth and keep the the look of – whatever it is that’s running around in his guts right now – off his face, tries to just look, like - . Normal.

As normal as possible, anyway, which is probably, honestly not all that normal, not when Tom’s saying shit like that.

Because, look: Nic started hearing ‘babe’ pretty early on, and that’s nothing, really. Everyone’s _babe_ in the Caps locker room; it’s used so often and by so many, to so many, that it’s basically meaningless at this point.

But over his extended birthday visit at the lake he started hearing _baby_ peppered in occasionally, mostly in bed, but still, it was - . Unexpected, to say the least, considering hearing Tom address him by his actual first name is still something of a shock to the system.

But, like. First Nicky, and now _sweetheart_? Jesus _Christ_.

Nic’s heart is beating so fast he’s afraid he’s going to stroke out right here in his twin-sized childhood bed.

“Don’t you miss me, too?” Tom says, when Nic’s been quiet too long. His voice is plaintive, soft.

“Of course I -. I told you already, I do,” Nic reminds him, but of course Tom doesn’t remember.

 _He won’t remember any of this, Nic_ , he reprimands himself, and shakes his head.

“An’ we’ll have sex okay, an’ kiss a lot. An’ sleep naked in the - . In the same bed, in my bed like before okay. When you come back,” Tom pronounces suddenly, before finishing it off with a firm, “Good,” like it’s all decided.

His eyes close again.

“Well, uh,” is all Nic can say. “I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”

Tom makes a low grunting sound, and doesn’t open his eyes.

Nic says his name a few more times, to no avail. So he takes a last look at Tom’s face, peaceful and relaxed and tipped back against his headboard in the low golden light from his bedside lamp, and ends the call.

+++

Nic has a little trouble sleeping after that, to be honest.

Like, up all night type of trouble.

His brain is suddenly too busy for sleep, buzzing with adrenaline and a million _what if_ s.

Like, what if Tom doesn’t remember any of this?

What if Nic calls in the morning like he promised, and Tom thinks he’s crazy, has no idea what the hell Nic’s talking about?

What if Tom _does_ remember?

What if Tom remembers, and regrets everything, and wants to pretend he never said those things?

What if he’s embarrassed, and would rather Nic not bring it up at all?

What if Nic _shouldn’_ t bring it up at all?

What if Nic shouldn’t even call, and should just pretend it never happened?

But also.

What if Tom remembers, and meant it, and wants to talk about it but Nic doesn’t bring it up, so he thinks _Nic_ wants to pretend it never happened?

It’s exhausting, honestly, just imagining all the ways this could go wrong.

Nic finally wears himself out around daybreak, then falls asleep and doesn’t wake up until past noon.

Because he’s suddenly been transformed by one drunk phone call from his _actual boyfriend_ into an irresponsible non-adult who is terrible at life. Apparently.

When he wakes up and sees the time, he feels immediately guilty that it’s no longer technically morning, and he promised Tom. He lunges for his phone and pushes send before he even has time to Think Too Much about what he’s going to say when Tom answers the -.

“I’m not dead but I might be dying. Too soon to tell.”

Tom’s voice sounds wrecked, dry and cracked and terrible.

“Did I wake you?” Nic tries to make his own voice sound broken in, well-used, like he’s been up and about, being a regular functional person for _hours_ already.

“Nah,” Tom groans, “but only ‘cause I had to take a piss about an hour ago. Now my fucking head hurts too bad to go back to sleep.”

“Ugh, that sucks.” Nic means it sincerely – hangovers are the worst. “Were you drinking wine?”

Because wine hangovers are the extra-worst.

“At the start,” Tom says ominously. Nic can’t help the snort that escapes him at the tone of Tom’s voice.

“What about at the end?”

“Whiskey,” Tom spits, like the very thought disgusts him. “I mean, bad decisions were definitely made.”

Now would be the time, Nic knows – he should jump in with some joke about those bad decisions, chirp Tom a little about saying ridiculous, over the top things that _of course he didn’t mean_ last night, show Tom that it’s fine and he shouldn’t worry about Nic taking it too seriously or anything.

Now would be the time, but Nic just.

 _Doesn’t_.

Instead he sits there quietly until it turns awkward, because that’s just, like, _who he is_ , or whatever.

“Dowder,” Tom says low, voice still rough, “I don’t mean calling you, if that’s what you’re thinking. That wasn’t one of the bad decisions.”

“Okay, sure,” Nic says agreeably, nice and neutral and non-commital, “but, like.”

“But what?”

Nic screws up his face uncomfortably, inordinately glad they’re not FaceTiming today. He shoves his fingers into his hair and gives it a yank, like maybe that will provide some focus or inspiration.

“I wasn’t really, like,” he bites his lip, blinks at his bedroom ceiling. “I just didn’t know how drunk you really were. Like. _Saying stuff you don’t really mean_ , kinda drunk? Or like, _won’t remember anyway so it really doesn’t matte_ r kinda drunk, or. Y’know.”

“I don’t think it was either,” Tom says, and his voice sounds softer. “You thought maybe I didn’t mean it? Really?”

“I dunno, I just. No, but I mean. Do you really remember?”

“I think so, yeah. I remember I thought how dumb it is that we’re spending all this time apart, like, for no reason. And I think that’s what I told you, right? That like, you should just come back up here?”

“Yeah, you said that. And some other stuff.”

“Like that I miss you.”

“Right.”

“Was that it?”

“I mean. Basically, yeah.”

“So you thought I didn’t mean that?”

“No, just. There may have been some. Other stuff? I guess?”

“Oh, you guess?” Tom snorts. “Other stuff like what?”

“Nothing, it’s stupid, it didn’t. It’s not important.”

“ _Dowder_.” His voice has that warning edge of irritation, like he’s about to be out of patience. Which, yeah. Fair enough.

Nic sighs, and wishes for the fourteen-thousandth time that he was better at this.

“Just like, you said I was cute and, uh. Pretty? And that you like when I call you Tommy? And you said you could call me Nicky, but you don’t want me to think – something. You didn’t say what. But you said. You called me baby, a few times. And, uh. Sweetheart?”

Tom huffs out a long breath, and then laughs.

“Yeah, Jesus, that’s -,” he says, but he barely even sounds embarrassed, really. “I mean,” he goes on, and his voice is suddenly very deep, “’d you really think I’d care about that kinda shit? I _do_ like when you call me Tommy. You say it kinda, I dunno. Sweet, or something. Different from anyone else who calls me that.”

“Oh,” Nic says, because he can’t really say anything else when he can’t fucking breathe.

“And, I mean. You know you’re fuckin’ cute as hell, Dowder.”

“I do?” Nic hopes his voice isn’t as squeaky as it sounded in his own ears, but Tom laughs again, and he thinks that hope is probably in vain.

“You do,” Tom says, “or you should. I should’ve - . I should say that kinda stuff more, not just when I’m drunk, eh?

“Okay,” Nic breathes, with all the air left in his lungs. He’s a little light-headed, which is ridiculous. He’s a grown ass man, not a teenager with a crush.

It’s just, it’s Tom. It’s fucking _Tom_.

“And look, about the rest of it. If you don’t like that shit, pet names or whatever, that’s cool, I get it. But you know how it is after a while, when you’re with someone. Sometimes it just kinda rolls off the tongue that way.”

And, okay, Nic thought he’d been pretty clear, but like – .

“I don’t, though,” he reminds Tom. Like, how the fuck would Nic know _how it is_ in a relationship? “Know how it is, I mean. You do know I’ve never done this before, right? Like - had a boyfriend, I mean.”

“Shit,” Tom says, like maybe he didn’t actually remember. “I mean. Yeah, I mean of course, yeah, sorry. I guess, to be honest I always think, like, _I’ve never had a boyfriend before either_ , y’know? But like, I’ve _been_ a boyfriend before, and I guess that’s like – the important part, here.”

“Well,” Nic considers, “I’d say it’s a definite point of difference in our experiences, yeah.”

“So, okay,” Tom says, “like – I guess I’m one of those people who, like, nicknames and whatever – _terms of endearment_ , whatever you want to call them - it just kinda comes out, when I’m dating someone, I guess because -. Like, there’s only one person you can say those things to, right? Only one person who – _is_ those things. And that’s you, for me, so.”

Nic’s heart flips, his stomach swoops, and he feels.

Like.

Like, fuck. _Fuck_.

“I mean, that’s, yeah, that’s okay, or, I mean, it’s - ” he breathes, and then he has to close his eyes and gather himself for a minute before he can manage to croak out a weak, “good.”

“Do you want me to – not?” Tom asks, and Nic can tell from the slightly sing-song-y tone that the fucker already knows the answer.

“Fuck you,” he says, then, “shut up.”

Tom cackles.

“Am I embarrassing you, baby? Or turning you on?”

“Shut _up_ ,” Nic moans. “You’re the one who drunk dialed _me_ and said embarrassing things! Why should I be embarrassed?”

Tom laughs again, low and throaty.

“I think you’re embarrassed because you like it, eh? Should we switch to FaceTime? See what little Nicky’s up to this morning?”

“Oh my God, we will _not_ ,” Nic says primly. “That’s terrible. And anyway, it’s afternoon.”

Once again, Tom just laughs.

“Right, because that was the important part.”

“Humph,” Nic says, and Tom laughs some more.

“Hey,” he says finally, and his voice is back to that low, soft thing that makes the flutter start up again in Nic’s chest.

“I don’t think either one of us needs to be embarrassed, right? I can tell my boyfriend I miss him, even if I’m accidentally a drunk asshole when I do it. Nothing wrong with that, is there?”

“No,” Nic confirms, biting at his lip to keep the smile out of his voice. “Nothing wrong with that.”

“And you can like your boyfriend calling you sweetheart, for fuck’s sake. There’s nothing wrong with that either. Right?”

“I mean,” Nic says, because it seems like maybe he _shouldn’t_ like it, but like -.

He’s pretty sure whatever’s telling him he shouldn’t let his boyfriend call him diminutive nicknames sounds exactly like the voice that tells him he shouldn’t have a _boyfriend_ to begin with – too risky, too irresponsible, and he didn’t work his whole life to get to the NHL just to throw it all away because he saw a dick he liked and then caught feelings or whatever.

It’s the same voice that says even if he _is_ dumb enough to try to have a boyfriend in the NHL, said boyfriend definitely shouldn’t be a teammate, much less a possibly-straight teammate, much less Tom _fucking_ Wilson, of all fucking people, like how goddamn stupid is he, anyway?

Incidentally, that voice has a thick Alabama accent and sounds suspiciously like Nic’s 6th grade Boy Scout Master who once called Nic _princess_ when he balked at baiting his own hook.

So, like.

 _Fuck_ that voice, basically.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” he agrees finally, resolved. And then because he’s feeling brave, “I do like it. It’s stupid to be embarrassed about it.”

“Right,” Tom agrees, “see? We’re getting better at this after all.”

“Better is a pretty low bar,” Nic points out, “considering the starting point.”

“Hey, progress is progress.”

“I guess - yeah.”

“So, I mean. I know I keep saying you should come here, but I guess, like. I could come there instead, if you want?” Tom sounds cautiously optimistic; still tentative, but eager.

“Or we could meet in DC or something? I just -. I mean, it doesn’t really matter, I just, y’know. Want to see you.”

“No, that’s - . It’s not _that_ , I can.” Nic takes a deep breath. “Toronto sounds really good, actually. I mean, it’s so fucking hot here - I can’t have your blood on my hands if you die of heat stroke or something.”

There’s a pause, then Tom says,

“Good, yeah,” like it’s decided. “Just let me know when works for you. Anytime is good for me, okay? Like – any time.”

“I was kinda planning on heading back to DC with Arlo on Sunday,” Nic says, “but I could just come North instead? I mean, if that’s - . If you need more lead time I can hang out in DC for awhile and you can just tell me when - .”

“Dowder,” Tom cuts him off firmly, “I said anytime, okay? If you could come today, I’d take it. Alright?”

“Arlo, too?” He asks, and Tom huffs a soft laugh.

“Jesus. Nic - _yes_. Arlo, too. Pack your dog, pack your shit, and come as soon as you can, okay? I gotta – what did I say last night? Fatten you up?”

“Put some meat on my bones,” Nic reminds him, and Tom cackles.

“Right, right. I gotta put some meat on your bones.”

“So you won’t have to defend my honor on the ice?” Nic’s voice is teasing, low.

“Did I say that?” Tom asks, and for the first time today it sounds like he actually might not remember that.

“You said if I train with you, I’ll get stronger so I don’t get pushed around, then you won’t have to fight.”

“You don’t like it when I fight,” Tom says, matter-of-fact, and Nic’s heart goes all fluttery, some more.

“I don’t,” he confirms. “I especially wouldn’t like if you ever did it because of me.”

And he didn’t mean for it to happen, but his voice did the thing where it turned all soft and fond, and he knows he shouldn’t be embarrassed about that either, but he still is.

He’s starting to have hope, though, that he might get over it. Because when Tom says,

“I would, though,” his voice sounds pretty damn fond, too, thank you very much, and it’s getting harder and harder not to believe they’re actually in this thing together.

“If you think someone going after Andre makes me lose my shit, I mean - . _Yeah_. Let’s get you bulked up a little, and maybe just try not to test it, eh?”

+++

Tom looks all rumpled and sweaty and, just - .

Like Tom – which is to say, ridiculously, _unfairly_ hot – when he answers Nic’s FaceTime on Sunday night.

“Where you at?” he huffs, and by the cadence of his breath it’s clear he’s on some machine of the bike-stair-treadmill variety. By the wall behind him with the high window, Nic knows he’s still at the lake house, down in the basement in his gym.

He’s meeting Nic in Toronto tomorrow, at his condo there.

“Beautiful Dayton, Ohio.” Nic has the phone flipped away from him to show Arlo laying on the nondescript hotel carpet, gnawing idly on his favorite chew toy.

“Hey, there’s my guy,” Tom says, in that goofy little voice he uses for talking to anything small and cute, and then when Nic flips the phone back, “and hey, there’s my other guy,” in the _same damn voice_.

“My _main_ guy,” he goes on, “my main squeeze.” He’s grinning, all shirtless and sweaty and proud of himself, and honestly, he’s such an idiot.

“Okay, okay,” Nic rolls his eyes, but he can feel himself blush just the same.

Tom’s grin just gets bigger, turns into that predatory one that makes Nic’s pulse jump.

“Jesus, you’re too easy,” he shakes his head, and Nic can recognize it now in the background, the steady whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of the bike’s pedals, can see the way Tom’s shoulders are rotating side to side just a bit with the extension and contraction of each leg.

“Yeah, that’s always been a big problem for you,” Nic rolls his eyes again. “Me being too easy.”

“Depends what you mean by _problem_ , I guess,” Tom shrugs. “You being so fucking cute is more what I’d call a _distraction_ , I guess, than a problem.”

“Wow,” Nic says, “you’re really laying it on thick, huh?”

“Might as well,” Tom says, totally unrepentant, “see if I can get something good out of it.”

“Oh yeah, like what?” Nic’s got his skeptical eyebrows out in full effect, just so Tom knows he’s not falling for this shit.

Even though, to be real, he’s definitely gonna end up falling for this shit.

Tom doesn’t even bother trying to look innocent.

“Dowder, _sweetheart_ , c’mon,” he says, all pained, like Nic’s some virginal prom queen who’s been making him wait for it, making him _work_ for it.

Which would be laughable, except - to be fair, Tom _has_ spent the last several weeks trying to talk Nic into jerking off on camera, while Nic staunchly refuses to do any such thing while at his parents’ house.

But now Nic’s in a random hotel room halfway between Huntsville and Toronto, and – .

“Just give me a little look, huh? Sneak peak, remind me what’s coming my way tomorrow? Twenty-four hours is a long time, babe.”

“Sneak Peak, huh?” Nic still has his skeptical face on, but he’s already using his free hand to cup his dick, which is thickening up by the second. “What’ll I get if I do?”

The whirring of the bike stops immediately, and Nic watches Tom’s pupils go wide, watches his tongue snake out to lick his bottom lip.

“Whaddya want?” he asks, voice suddenly thick.

“I want you to jerk off while you watch me,” Nic says, not even pretending like he has to think about it – like he _hasn’t thought_ about it. “Right there, where you are. No vibrator, just your hand.”

“Dude,” Tom starts, but Nic shakes his head, cuts him off.

“You don’t have to show me,” he says, because he wants to give Tom something - something mindless and good and _easy_ , not something he has to think too much about or get all hung up on.

So instead Nic just flips the camera around, lets Tom see things from his point of view.

He’s reclined against the headboard, shirt rucked up around his ribs, the flat expanse of his belly exposed and the outline of his erection pressing up against his shorts, bulging obscenely. He slides his free hand down under the waistband of his boxer briefs and jacks himself a few times, slow, so Tom can see his hand working under his shorts but can’t see anything else, not yet.

“Just wanna know you’re doing it, is all. Think you can do that for me?”

Nic’s learned a few tricks by now, about dealing with Tom. Like, that whatever he wants, his chances of getting it are better if he poses it as a challenge. But also, that asking like it’s a personal favor is what really works like a charm.

Because raising doubts about whether Tom _can do that_ – whatever _that_ is – always gets Tom’s attention, but it’s the _for me_ that he really responds to.

At least when the _me_ in question is Nic.

“Yeah,” Tom breathes, sounding a little dazed already. “Yeah, I can do that.”

Nic watches his eyes, the way they go even darker when Nic shoves the waistband of his shorts down, and the way his mouth opens a little, breathing heavier.

“You don’t have to show me,” he says again, soft and reassuring, the voice he uses whenever Tom gets skittish about sex stuff, “but, just do what I do, yeah? Get your pants off, get your hand on your dick for me, okay? Like this.”

He wraps his fingers around his own erection, gives a slow stroke, and Tom exhales loudly.

“Uh huh, okay,” Tom says, and he’s moving, off the bike and up against the wall. His shoulders slide down the cinder block, until he’s sitting.

“Ready?” Nic asks, and gives himself another slow stroke, then pauses for Tom to catch up.

“Keep going,” Tom whines; Nic keeps his hand still, but gives his cock a squeeze, watches Tom watching him raptly.

“Only if you do it, too,” Nic insists, “come on.”

There’s some shuffling around on Tom’s end, and finally Nic can see his shoulder move, see his arm start working.

Nic strokes himself one more time, slow, and watches Tom’s eyes flutter, hears him groan.

“You with me, now?” Nic asks one more time, and grins when Tom grunts, “right behind you, baby.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://makeit-takeit.tumblr.com/), if you're into that kind of thing!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Terms of Endearment](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19879105) by [AerPods (Aer)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aer/pseuds/AerPods)




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